Gillian Stone
Loneliness
She moves with shuffling step to unlock the door.
The knock came as she sat by her small fire.
Such strength she needs against her jointed pain
that she moves slowly, shuffles to the door.
Her unbelieving hand touches the knob:
the home help doesn’t come till Wednesday;
no one ever calls at No 24;
her friends are dead, her children gone away.
Still a catch of hope burdens her breath:
someone will come, have tea and talk and laugh;
her cup will serve for two, she has no other;
no one shall go unwelcome from her hearth.
The door she opens gapes. Sly children, giggling, run.
Old woman, shut the door. No one is there, no one.
Page(s) 136
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